


look twice

by tciddaemina



Category: Naruto
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anbu Uchiha Itachi, Badass Hoshigaki Kisame, Dream Sharing, Kirigakure | Hidden Mist Village, M/M, No Uchiha Massacre, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tciddaemina/pseuds/tciddaemina
Summary: Kisame doesn't dream often, or at least he didn't used to.
Relationships: Hoshigaki Kisame & Momochi Zabuza, Hoshigaki Kisame/Uchiha Itachi
Comments: 15
Kudos: 173





	look twice

**Author's Note:**

> aka the one where Kisame says nope to the Uchiha massacre
> 
> Just a warning that this story deals with Itachi as he is during his ANBU/ROOT days in the lead up to the Uchiha Massacre. Some of the content is about the aftermath of ANBU missions, with one scene featuring the aftermath of a massacre involving a child. Be aware that it can get grim, especially in the scenes where Itachi is coping with what he's been ordered to do.
> 
> Any romance in the story is largely pre-slash and can be interpreted as platonic, if that's more your cup of tea.

Kisame doesn't dream often, or at least he didn't used to. 

He supposes it comes from being part of a shinobi family, born and breed and reared by Kiri to be the best the village has to offer. If Kisame ever had anything similar to a conscience it was trained out of him years ago. So no, Kisame doesn't dream, doesn't wake up shaking the night after he first kills a man, doesn't spend the weeks afterwards seeing wide eyes growing pale and unblinking. 

To be honest, he barely remembers what the guy looked like, save that Kisame's sword had cut through him like a hot knife through butter and that the guy had had the nerve to look faintly surprised, as if right until the end he'd expected Kisame to be an easy fight. Kisame, all of eight years old and already a better swordsman than most of Kiri's shinobi will ever be, had simply cleaned off his blade, sealed the guy's head in a scroll, and tottered back to Kiri to turn in the bounty. 

His mother, when he got home, had looked at the blood still staining his uniform and merely clapped him on the shoulder. "Go take a bath." She'd said, her grin so sharp it looked like something you'd see in the deep ocean, all bright and gleaming fangs, the last thing you'd ever see before your blood hit the water. "I'll make your favorites for dinner. It's not every day you take your first bounty."

Kisame had nodded, gone to clean up, and that had been that.

Later, when Kisame was older and, well, probably not wiser but you get the idea, he used to wonder about it. It's all well and good to say the Hoshigaki are born killers, and truth be told they probably are, but Kisame wonders just how much Kiri's indoctrination played a part in it. After all, it's no use having a weapon that will quail at the first sight of blood, that will bleat and bray and turn astray when asked to do their duty to the village, no matter how dirty that duty might get. Morals are for civilians and charlatans, and anyone who tells you otherwise is probably a Leaf shinobi or one of the reeducation assessment board covertly evaluating you for problematic ideologies. 

He supposes other children dream about things, dream about the men and women they might one day grow up to be, the ways that they will one day change the world, but Kisame didn't do much of that either. He knew what he was, knew what he would one day be, knew that if he ever left a mark on the world it would be counted in the bodies left in his wake. Kisame is a shinobi, born and breed, and what more is there to say than that?

When Kisame grows, it's not from a child to a man, it's from genin to chunin, chunin to jonin, and the only thing that really changes is the ranks of the missions he takes and the number of bodies he leaves scattered in his wake. Kisame kills and trains, laughs and learns the taste of alcohol on his lips, of fingers on his skin, and if he ever dreams it is fleeting and quickly forgotten, dismissed with the first glow of dawn. 

That changes. 

-

It starts on a Tuesday night. Kisame is twenty-three, and has spent the last four days carving a bloody path through one of the tiny island chains that dot the outer border of Kiri's territory, neutralizing a minor clan that decided that the most profitable way to go about business was to start selling state secrets to Kumo. 

Kisame is bone weary, muscles loose and sore in the way they only get after a long punishing work out, and Samehada is purring across the room, sated and fed and full to bursting with the chakra of a clan that's now extinct. He sleeps. Dreams. 

Dreams of leaves over his head, rustling faintly in a warm breeze, light sloping through the trees and cutting soft lines across the forest floor. He dreams of dark eyes and silent footsteps, a figure walking beside him. Dreams of a quiet voice that would be soft, almost, if it weren't so unfailing polite, so tightly leashed, cautious in the way only a true clan born killer can be, masks firmly in place. 

Kisame can remember laughing, a true deep rumbling laugh that shook through his belly, can remember eyes narrowing at him, not yet decided on whether to be amused or offended, only for it to all be washed away by a polite demure, a tilt of the head as the masks settle firmly back into place. 

When Kisame wakes up, it's with a lingering feeling of warmth beneath his skin and a hollow ache in his belly that speaks of something like loss, or perhaps simply missed opportunity. He would have liked to talk more. Then Kisame blinks, staring up at the aged and faded panels of his ceiling, and curses. 

"Well." Kisame says, folding one arm behind his head even his mind scours for details from a dream that's already fading, wisps of almost-memory slipping between his fingers like smoke, already vague and indistinct. "This is going to be a problem."

-

Kisame knows what it is of course. _Everyone_ knows what it is, but he knows about it in the same way that people talk about fairy tales, stories spoken about a girl or a boy or whoever that lives three islands over and yet that nobody can really quite bring themselves to believe really exists. It's romantic supposedly, a gift from the gods, and god knows that every halfassed romance novel out there milks it for all its worth. 

There are protocols in place to deal with it. Kisame knows, he had to learn them with the rest of his class when they were still at the academy. It was only when each and every one of them could recite the protocols word for word that the teachers would let them leave the class, moving on to the next module. 

So yeah, Kisame knows that he should report this to his supervisor, turn himself over for evaluation and quarantine until the threat level has been assessed. Kisame might not be the sharpest kunai in the bunch, but even he's smart enough to realize what this means. Whoever he dreamed of, they're a shinobi, and worse a foreign shinobi. That's a sure fire stint in quarantine and reeducation at least, to be held until Kiri can decide whether he's a tool they can make use of or a liability to be dealt with. 

Every regulation says that he should turn himself in, report himself for reeducation willingly. Instead, Kisame takes a three week long A rank and thinks about it. In that time he dreams. 

They walk along the beach this time, boots leaving tracks in the sand behind them as the cold wind whips the waves up, threatening to hit them with the spray but always stopping just short. Kisame doesn't recognize the beach, not quite, but the dark sands and grizzling horizon speaks of Kiri, the clouds hanging so low they almost seem to kiss the waves. 

"It's a predicament, I suppose." The person says, pausing as the waves spill up the shore, leaving white lines of foam on the sand a couple of inches from his open-toed boots. He wears his armor openly, a sword strapped to his back, kunai at his hip, but then so does Kisame, Samehada strapped proudly to his back and his hitaiate on display. 

"Mm." Kisame agrees with a nonchalant shrugs. The mist coils around his ankles, the air cool and damp, and Kisame wonders if he could weave his chakra through it, thicken it and bring it coiling down around them with a suiton. Can you use jutsu in a dream? "You could say that."

"It could be a trap of course." They say, tone mild and carefully polite. Kisame can never quite remember their face when he wakes up, but he thinks they're young. Younger than him at least. Not that that means much when you're dealing with a shinobi. 

"Not much of a trap." Kisame says, nodding to the dark tattoo just visible through the crack in their armor. They've hardly made a secret of their allegiances. But then neither has Kisame. "That usually requires a little bit more subterfuge. If it were, one of us would probably be pretending to be a civilian, don't you think?"

They make a considering noise, dipping their head, and turn forwards, continuing their march. Kisame falls into step beside them easily, content to let the silence stretch. If either of them says anything else, Kisame doesn't remember it when he wakes. 

-

Kisame completes the mission with a few days to spare, returning early to Kiri to collect his pay. He could have stretched it out a little more, manufactured some excuse to make the mission go over its time estimate, but that would have been more suspicious than anything else. The Hoshigakis are some of Kiri's most effective shinobi, and Kisame is one of their best. At this point anything less than excellence is a red flag. 

He makes his rounds of the training grounds, wiping the dirt with Momochi a couple of times just to prove he still can, and then drags him out to get smashed with Mangetsu afterwards, ignoring the snooty looks Jinpachi and the other old fucks send their way when they realize that Kisame has once again deigned to grace Momochi and the other low born filth with his presence. Good old elitist Kiri, gotta love it. 

That night Kisame dreams of a market place, one of those bright civilian owned affairs that you sometimes see in some of the smaller villages. He wanders through the stalls, stepping around keen shopkeepers and through the clouds of sizzling steam rising from the open-air grills, eventually finding his quarry sitting at one of the little stalls, face shaded by the hanging curtains as he drinks his tea. Kisame slides into the seat across from him, and watches one brow go up. 

"Been drinking?" They ask, raising the cup to their lips. The tea is a fragrant thing with a sweet note of jasmine, and as Kisame watches they lean over, pouring another cup and passing it to Kisame. 

"Only a little." Kisame grins, accepting it. He doesn't feel drunk still, doesn't look it either, but it must show. Kisame takes a sip of the tea, leaning back to cast a glance at their surroundings. "Some place you know?"

They dip their head, hands cupping the delicate porcelain cup. "A mission in Grass. We passed through here yesterday."

Kisame hums appreciatively, taking a sip of the tea, but doesn't inquire further. He could ask, he knows. Try and ferret out details about their location, the cause of their mission, how many shinobi they're traveling with and what their objective is. Instead he leans back, enjoying the sweet scent of festival treats in the air and the sound of music being played somewhere down the street. 

"I would have thought Kiri would have you pressing me for information." They say after a long moment, when the first pot of tea has come and gone and been replaced by another. It appears dango is his friends meal of choice, two plates of them appearing on the table at some point too, though Kisame neither sees nor hears a waitress come and go. 

"I mean, you're not wrong." Kisame says, even as he takes a bite and chasing it down with another sip of tea. If Kiri had even the vaguest inkling of his connection with a Konoha nin, they'd have him pumping him for info faster than you could say honeypot. That or he'd already be six feet under. Kisame leans back with a thoughtful hum, regarding the man opposite him. 

If he were a loyal shinobi, a truly loyal shinobi, he'd turn him over here and now. Wouldn't have even thought twice about it. As it is, Kisame is not convinced he should do anything of the sort. Yeah he's been loyal to Kiri his entire life, but... this is interesting. _They're_ interesting, and Kisame is not entirely certain he wants to give that up. 

Kisame hums, taking another sip of his tea, enjoying the feel of their eyes on him. Their observation is... polite, for all that it's tempered with keen suspicion. Beneath that wall of calm neutrality Kisame can see a flicker of interest watching him back, a curiosity there that makes something tingle down his spine, a grin forming on his lips. "So," Kisame says, leaning forward with a curious expression. "What's your favorite colour?"

"I- Excuse me?" They ask, blinking for a second, their hands stilling their carefully calibrated fidgeting. Kisame doubts they're actually nervous, the way they hold themselves is too sure for that, too lethal, but they're a good enough shinobi to use their age to their advantage and no doubt by now its a habit to set up the façade, tailoring their behavior to make their mark feel more confident. 

"Well you're not going to tell me about your family." Kisame says easily, keeping tally on his fingers. "Or what your hometown is like, where you've been recently, who your friends are. Personal preferences are also off the table, that information can be dangerous too. So. Favorite colour?"

They narrow their eyes, but they look more amused than anything, so Kisame smiles, counting that a win. No doubt they know what he's doing. In the grand scheme of things a persons favorite colour is practically useless as far as intel goes. To be honest Kisame doubts that most people even have one. Still, it's the sort of bullshit people talk about then they want to know each other better, and in that regard it serves Kisame's purposes amiably. 

They hum thoughtfully, thinking on it for a moment, and Kisame pretends not to notice the way the minutest bit of tension eases from their shoulders as they collect their teacup, pouring themselves another cup. "If I had to choose... I've always been partial to blue."

Kisame preens a little, sharp teeth flashing in a smile. "Well that's fortunate then isn't it?"

-

Personal attachments are frowned upon in shinobi. They represent too much liability, too much risk of exploitation, or worse, sedition. Still, if Kisame had to call one person his friend, it would probably be Momochi. Not that Momochi would agree of course, he's as prickly and suspicious as any other shinobi, but he has a manner of cutting through all the bullshit that Kisame rather likes. Or perhaps he just admires the balls it took for Momochi, lowborn clanless Momochi, to master every single one of the seven great swords and say fuck you to the Kiri council by becoming one of the Seven Swordsmen and _staying_ one. 

How many assassination attempts is he on now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Kisame stopped counting a while back, right around the time that Momochi started mailing the assailants back to the council in pieces. 

"Really," Kisame says, as Momochi dispatches another one, that kid of his quickly swooping in to make a sketch of his face so that they can report his death back to the Mizukage's office. Kisame wonders if they'll try and collect it as a bounty. It wouldn't be the first time they'd tried. "You'd think they'd get tired of it after a while."

Momochi makes an annoyed _tch_ noise and straps Kubikiribōchō back onto his back, not even bothering to wipe off the blood - Kubikiribōchō will absorb it anyway, consuming the iron to strengthen its surface and repairs any scratches. "You say that like they ever get tired of anything, the soulless fucks. You could stab 'em and they probably wouldn't bleed."

Kisame makes an amused noise. "Careful, that sort of talk can get you sent back in for reeducation."

Momochi shoots him a filthy look, that brat of his flicking to his side to offer the meager contents of his assailant's pockets. It's nothing more than a few shuriken and a couple of tags laced with neurotoxin, nothing identifying, nothing incriminating, standard assassin fare. "Shall I take care of the body, Zabuza-sama?" The kid asks, bowing his head, but Momochi just growls, already stomping onwards. "Just leave it. I can't be fucked today."

The boy dips his head without a word, falling into step next to Momochi, and after a second Momochi turns back, glaring at Kisame. "Well? We going to fight or not? I don't have all fucking day."

Kisame grins, Samehada giving a low rumbling purr from where she lies strapped to his back, and follows. Later, when they're both bruised and bloodied and Samehada has finally stopped sulking about the scar Kubikiribōchō left across her scales, the two of them sit in the corner booth of the rowdiest bar they could find. The booze tastes like piss, and Kisame is pretty sure that at least half the clientele are actually just hookers on the look out for a mark, but the background chatter of the room is loud enough to be almost deafening, which makes it safer than most other bars in Kiri. 

"You ever seriously think about it?" Kisame asks, voice casual, even as he makes sure it's pitched low. "Leaving Kiri?"

Momochi gives a low grunt, leaning back. His eyes are fixed somewhere across the room, to where the kid is carefully sitting with the hookers, chatting with them politely about what Kisame is pretty sure is their tips for how to do their makeup. "Thought about it." Momochi says after a long minute. "Would never actually do it. Kiri is a shit show, but..."

"It's our shit show." Kisame says, finishing the thought. He knows there's a subset of the younger shinobi generation that see something more in Kiri, a potential that has never been realized. Momochi is one of them, and he's never made much effort to hide it. Hell, he wasn't even an academy student when he slaughtered the entire academy, calling the council out in the bloodiest way possible on their habit of having the graduating class carve themselves up just to produce a single worthy graduate. 

"Why ask?" Momochi says suddenly, pinning Kisame with a hard look. Kisame laughs, shooting him a sharp grin, and shrugs. 

"Don't worry, I haven't suddenly developed an interest in revolution." Kisame says, taking a long drink of his sake. "Or for being taken in for reeducation. Just... thinking, I guess."

"Well don't think to hard." Momochi says gruffly, leaning back in the booth. "You don't want to hurt yourself."

"Oh, fuck you." Kisame says, but his grin is more amused than anything. He shoves himself out of his seat, rising, and raises a brow at Momochi. "Alright, next rounds on me. What are you having?"

-

Two weeks pass, three, and Kisame continues to dream, every night coming back to that same familiar face. The scene of the dream seems to change almost at random, and it's just as likely that the night will find them walking through the fields of Grass country or some tiny town in Suna as standing on the shores of Kiri or beneath the great trees of Konoha. 

More often than not though, when the foreign ninja controls the dream, they end up at tea shops and restaurants, sipping tea and watching plate after plate of snacks slip by, little rice cakes dusted with powered sugar, candied fruit, and delicately crafted confectionary. The person, Kisame is starting to realize, has a very sharp sweet tooth. 

"Careful." Kisame says, after the third dream in a row where they end up drinking jasmine tea. "Someone could poison you with intel like that."

"You'd have to find me first." They reply dryly, taking another sip, unperturbed. The tea shop is a small thing, no different to a hundred other tea shops that dot the roads of Fire Country. Which Kisame expects is rather the point. 

Kisame makes an amused noise, giving a pointed look at their hitaiate. "You say that like it would be a challenge, Konoha."

They return his look flatly, taking another sip of their tea. "Realistically," They say, shooting Kisame a bemused look, their eyes drifting to Samehada for a moment. "If one of us was going to kill the other, I would have the better chance of success. The Seven Swordsmen of the Mist are hardly unknown figures."

"Ah, guess you caught me." Kisame says, giving a one-shouldered shrug. True, neither of them has been making much of an effort to conceal their identities, but even this small concession changes things. Theoretically they're both already compromised, have been since the connection fist established itself and they decided not to report it. Or well, since Kisame decided not to report it. For all he knows, this companion is a far more loyal shinobi. 

With the information they've already gained from Kisame, they could set up a trap. The fact that Kisame has even shown interest, has even engaged with this ongoing connection is an opportunity their could exploit. It would be all to easy for Konoha to play on that, to use their man as a lure and reel Kisame in. Kisame knows that, _they_ know that, and yet here they both are, sitting together in an imaginary tea house in the middle of a nameless town in Fire Country, drinking tea.

"I suppose you have the advantage then." Kisame says, leaning forward and setting the tea cup down on the table, watching as their eyes sharpen, tracking the moment. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

They tense, muscles coiling tightly beneath their uniform for all that they keep their posture easy and relaxed. Kisame waves his hand, quickly dispelling any misapprehension. "Don't worry." He says. "I'm not going to ask who you are, not yet anyway. But... tell me something. Something about yourself."

"Like what?" They ask, tilting their head politely, though Kisame can make out the suspicion lurking beneath their smile. No doubt wondering what his avenue of attack is, what he hopes to gain from this. 

"I don't know." Kisame replies easily. "Anything. Did you ever go to festivals as a kid? Have you ever seen the ocean? I already know you like tea, so what is it you like about it so much? Just... something. Anything. What do you like?"

They're silent for a long moment, watching him carefully from across the booth. Eventually they lean back, seeming to make up their mind. "My brother." They say, one finger tracing the pattern etched into the side of their teacup. "That's what I like. My younger brother. He's... the most important thing in the world to me."

-

Kisame could look them up, he knows he could. They've let enough slip over the last few weeks that if he really tried he could probably pin them down. After all, there's only so many shinobi that young who're skilled enough to have been accepted into ANBU, and while Konoha has a large population, their population of shinobi isn't as large as that. 

But Kisame doesn't. He doesn't even try. 

In the end, he doesn't know if it's amusement at this game they're playing, this secretive back and forth that they have going on that stills his hand, or whether its just... dread. It feels like something is growing, like something is changing, that one day soon Kisame will reach a threshold and once he does there will be no going back. Kisame has never been afraid of change, and he isn't now, but he has the feeling that this, that finally learning their name, will change things. 

It feels like when he does, Kisame will have to make a choice, and he doesn't yet know what his decision will be. And maybe that should scare him, but mostly Kisame just feels a growing sense of anticipation. Whatever happens, it's bound to be interesting. 

-

The dreams aren't always sunshine and festival foods. Some nights when Kisame sleeps he finds himself walking unfamiliar halls, listening to the drip drip drip of blood hitting the floor, the quiet whisper of a blade leaving its sheath. In some of those dreams, he can hear the soft sound of crying, hushed, gasping sobs that abruptly go silent, replaced by the slick sound of blood pouring down someone's throat. 

He finds them in the courtyard, sword still dripping as they stand amongst the field of corpses. In the moonlight their mask seems to glow, the pale porcelain unearthly, the light of the moon turning the blood so black it almost looks like ink splattered across their clothes. They turn their head, hearing him come, but don't speak. 

Kisame steps out into the courtyard, sparing only the briefest glances at the corpses as he picks his way through, coming to stand at their side. The crushing depths of the ocean has less pressure than the silence that presses down on their shoulders, tightening its claws around anything thought that dares contemplate breaching the still air. They stand motionless, so still that Kisame almost feels like he's standing beside a doll, not even slow extension and contraction of their breathing enough to break the image. 

When they finally speak, their voice is clear and utterly emotionless, and they've always been calm, but this takes it to a new level. Gone is the wry amusement, the soft civility. In its place is nothing, just a sheer blank slate. "A shinobi must do their duty." 

Kisame crouches down, examining the nearest body with an indifferent eye. There are at least a dozen people scattered across the courtyard - a minor lord's family by the look of their dress. From the looks of it the guards didn't even have the time to draw their swords, dead before they even knew they were under threat. The youngest of them can't be any older than six, tears still wet in their now blank eyes.

"I know." Kisame says, almost gently. He can't condemn him for this, not when Kisame himself has been sent on missions like this more times than he can count. Konoha might like to play at being the good guys, but when it comes down to it they have just as much blood on their hands as any other hidden village. Kiri and Kumo just tend to be more honest about it than most. 

The silence stretches, the minutes passing marked only by the slow drip of blood from their blade. Eventually they let out a low noise, head falling. "I'm tired." They say, voice hushed and painfully quiet. "I just... I don't want to see it anymore."

Kisame glances up, stilling when he sight of the red glow in their eyes. The moonlight is bright, angled low enough to cut through the shadow of their mask, revealing three black tomoe spinning at the center. The sharingan. No wonder they remember the scene so clearly. Most of the dreams they've been in have been hazy, indistinct, details lost even with the sharp recall of a shinobi, but this one is crystal clear, right down to the lines of the knots in the floorboards and the lazy sway of the leaves in the wind where the tree's drape their branches over the courtyard wall. Not a dream at all, Kisame realizes belatedly. A memory.

"I'm tired." They say, their eyes gently slipping closed, even as they tighten their grip on their sword. They don't react when Kisame gently slips it from their grasp, rising to stand beside them. Kisame lays a gentle hand on the small of their back, touch feather light, cautious, and when they don't react save to tilt their head back, letting out a quiet, exhausted breath, Kisame takes that as permission, stepping in and concentrating his attention on the dream around him. 

The colours begin to blur and smear, the dark halls and black-bright blood of the mansion running like paint over a canvass as the darkness deepens, taking on a new shade. Once, only once, his mother had taken him back to their ancestral shrine, showing him the place where the Hoshigaki had become the Hoshigaki, and Kisame takes them there now. The air takes on a thick quality around them, the water heavy against their skin, salt stinging their tongues with every breath. 

The light is dim and soft here, filtered through several dozen meters of seawater, and it ripples across the sandy ocean floor, casting dappled shadows against the rock face. Shadows pass overhead, the lazy forms of sharks gliding through the water, but they pay them no mind. Kisame had no trouble breathing down here, so neither does the Uchiha, and they let Kisame guide them to sit in the soft sand before the shrine without protest. Down here everything seems muted, softened by the weight of the water and the gentle swaying of the waves. 

They lean against his side, boneless and exhausted, red eyes still spinning as they watch the kelp slowly sway and the sharks circle gently overhead. Kisame keeps his hand on their back, giving them something to lean against, and they let him. At some point their mask has slipped away, vanishing as if it were never there, and Kisame finds himself staring at their face instead, noting the shadows that cling beneath their eyes. They look young like this, and despite being ANBU Kisame doubts they can be older than seventeen, eighteen at most. Not that that means much when you're trained to kill before you even hit ten. 

Sometimes Kisame wonders if Konoha isn't the cruelest of the lot. They turn their shinobi into weapons without even the decency of teaching them not to care. No wonder Konoha has the highest suicide rate of all the hidden villages. Kiri produces monsters, but at least everyone knows going in exactly what they're signing up for. This guy... Kisame wonders if he ever even got a choice. Probably not, clan born kids never do. Kisame certainly didn't. But then, Kisame reckons that he probably would have ended up a shinobi no matter what family he was born in to. It's not just being a Hoshigaki that makes him such a good killer - some of that is just Kisame. 

One of the sharks circles closer, an enormous, pale-skinned thing with eyes like wet ink, but Kisame sends it off again with a quiet pat, altering it's course with a gentle hand pressed against its muzzle. It turns without protest, it's curiosity an innocent thing, largely harmless. The Uchiha watches it go, a quiet sigh passing his lips. 

"I've got a new mission." They say, their voice low. There's a quiet desperation there, a bone weary resignation that leaves their voice flat and dead. "They want me to take care of them. All of them. Already they're making plans for how to do it, deciding on a date. It'll all be over before the new year."

There's months yet until the new year. A skilled shinobi could take care of a kill order in a couple of hours, no matter how big the target. That they're planning so far in advance, that... implies things. Whatever this operation is, its a big one, an _important_ one. Its enough to leave Kisame concerned. He's seen enough shinobi reach breaking point to know that the Uchiha is already dangling over the edge. One last shove and he'll slip over it entirely, and the Uchiha knows it too. He knows where this path will lead, and now he's just waiting for it to catch up. 

And Kisame... he doesn't like that thought. 

"Tell me." He says, tone brooking no argument, and the Uchiha does. 

\- 

Kisame leaves the next morning. He straps Samehada to his back, fills his pack with a full set of rations and solider pills, and leaves the village without a backwards glance, walking out the gates with a faint nod to the guards as he goes. He doesn't leave a note, doesn't stop to talk to anyone on the way. The only person he'd say anything to is Momochi, and he's honestly better off not knowing anything about it given the chance that the council might use it as an excuse to write him up for conspiracy and sedition. 

Not that Momochi has anything to do with it of course, but he is a pretty seditious guy. He's part of a revolutionary group for fucks sake. 

Kisame has cut a clear path right across Wave by the time they even realize he's gone. He heads north through Hotsprings for the two days it takes to lay a false trail and then turns right back around, skipping over the border of Fire Country and making a beeline right for Konoha, rambling back and forth just the required amount to keep any patrols from catching on to his presence.

Itachi's dreams are grim each night. Kisame forges on regardless, searching him out in whatever hellscape his mind has decided to toss him in this time, tracking him through silent halls with ripped paper screens, yawning swamps who's water sucks at his feet, dragging him downwards, the air thick with the scent of old blood. Each time, Kisame finds him, and each time Itachi lets him drag him away, shaping the dream into something kinder, something brighter. 

"The symbolism is getting a little obvious you know." Kisame says, as he steps through a forest threaded with tightly hung strings. They sing with each breath of the wind, ropes tightening, branches groaning within the strain, the cords spanning across the forest in a twisted web, tangled and drawn tight. After the first three times Kisame almost got tangled in them he resorted to just carving his way through using Samehada.

"I know." Itachi says with a quiet sigh. The bags beneath his eyes look even deeper and Kisame knows it's been because he's been having trouble sleeping - whether it missions or the thought of what's yet to come that keeps him sleepless, Kisame doesn't know. In the end he supposes it doesn't really matter, Itachi looks like shit either way. "I'm afraid I can't help it."

"Let me guess." Kisame says as he ducks under the last of the strings, coming to a halt beside Itachi. "You're a genjutsu type aren't you? Nobody else has such an active imagination."

Itachi makes a quiet noise but doesn't refute it, which Kisame takes as proof enough. "Figures," Kisame says, kicking off a cord when it tries to sneak up around his ankle. "Sharingan must be good for that shit."

"'That shit.'" Itachi echoes dryly. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. And here I was thinking that you only wanted to meet me so that you could kidnap me and steal my eyes." He says it so mildly, like one might make a comment on the weather or _oh my, mackerel is half price at the market today._ Kisame can't help it, he grins, huffing a laugh.

"Come on." He says, nudging Itachi's shoulder with his own as he starts walking, the forest beginning to blur around him, the dark, tangled trees replaced by the old oak forest that borders the northern edge of Fire Country. "I passed by a couple of nice lakes near Itamura yesterday. Come have a look."

Itachi still looks tired, still looks worn and weary and as brittle as old glass, but he nods regardless, falling into step beside Kisame without a word. And maybe Kisame can't be there for him, can't put a stop to the situation that's carving shadows beneath his eyes, but he can at least give him the chance to sleep peacefully through the night. 

-

There are some days when Itachi doesn't sleep at all, when the missions drag on and every hour is needed finely focused, the work never completely finished. On those days, Kisame sleeps dreamless, rising with the vaguely unsettled feeling of having reached for something that wasn't there. 

Itachi has one of the most self-disciplined minds Kisame has ever encountered, and yet the nights that follow those missions are always the hardest, Itachi's exhaustion only making the dreams all the more brutal. Kisame has never seen the Uchiha compound, and yet he's walked its halls enough times to feel as if he's familiar with it. On the good nights Kisame can steer them away, turning their path through the stretching halls of the compound into a rambling walk through the streets of Kiri, dragging Itachi around any bar that he remembers being even vaguely decent, out to the training fields where spectral figures fight, their moves only half-remembered. Itachi watches silently, rarely saying a word, but he follows regardless, staying close to Kisame's side wherever he leads. 

On the bad nights... Well, on the bad nights its all Kisame can do to make the bodies look like those of his own enemies, to replace those familiar, dark-eyed faces with bounties he once collected and nameless Kumo nin. On those nights Itachi stands still and motionless, face carved of stone, eyed bleeding a baleful red, sharingan spinning, and it's all Kisame can do to step in front of him, cupping his face between his hands as the blood rises so high and thick that it threatens to drown them both. 

In the nights after those dreams, Itachi is always quiet and withdrawn. But he never apologizes for his dreams and Kisame never asks him to. It's... odd, Kisame supposes, being suddenly subject to such a deluge of heavy imagery, guilt and fear and sorrow all carving bloody paths through Itachi's psyche in a way that they've never quite touched Kisame's. And it probably says something about the Hoshigaki's, about Kisame, that he can look at such rampant death and feel so little at all. Itachi feels it so much more deeply than Kisame ever has, and Kisame wonders how he survives it. Wonder how anyone survives it, if this is how humans are supposed to live. 

"I can't help but wonder if I'm doing the right thing." Itachi says quietly as they walk along the crest of the dune, sand sliding down the face of it in sibilant cascades with every step they take. In the moonlight the desert looks softer, kinder, less harsh than it does in the day time. Kisame can't quite place where they are but between them they've taken enough missions through Suna to make up a good approximation regardless. 

"It's hard. Choosing." Itachi says. "The Hokage says that for everybody there comes day when they must choose between what is easy and what is right, and yet... What is right? My family, they just want to live, to be equal to everybody else. And the village... I swore the day I became a shinobi, I made an oath to protect Konoha and everyone in it. How do I make that choice? How _can_ I?"

Kisame doesn't have an answer to that, so he stays silent. In the end it doesn't matter what path Itachi chooses, Kisame will be there until the end. Let them walk through fields of blood, it wasn't as if Kisame wasn't already doing it anyway. 

-

Fire Country isn't the biggest of the elemental nations, but it's still pretty fucking big. It takes Kisame three and a half weeks to make it to Tanzaku travelling at full speed, and even then he isn't fast enough. 

"It's happening." Itachi tells him that night, face pale and drawn. "They've set the date. Three days from now, I've been ordered to carry out the Hozon Protocol."

"I'll get there." Kisame says, squeezing Itachi's shoulder tightly. The dream draws tight around them, the air so thick and heavy that it threatens to steal the breath from his lungs. Kisame meets Itachi's eyes firmly. "I promise. I will get there. Wait for me."

"Kisame-" Itachi starts, but Kisame is already fading away, forcing himself from the dream and back into his waking body. He wastes no time, strapping Samehada to his back and slipping from the window without even pausing to close it behind him. Kisame has always been known for his endurance, for unrivaled size of his chakra reserves, and he puts it to good use now, dashing across the landscape at breakneck speed, each step leaving the ground cracked and fractured in his wake, chakra lending his steps speed. 

He reaches the borders of Konoha halfway through the second night, and pauses for an hour in the territory outside the wall, examining the best way to slip through. In the end Kisame decides that subtlety is best left for people like Itachi and just goes right over the top, ignoring the alarmed squawks of the chunin manning the walls. Within three minutes, ANBU are swarming the area, skittering over the rooftops like ants over a kicked nest, but by that time Kisame is already gone. 

People forget, but just because Kisame is one of the Seven Swordsmen doesn't mean he isn't stealthy. He's a Hoshigaki. He taught the Demon of the fucking Mists how to mold his chakra through the air, how to silence his steps and blend away into nothing, and the fact that Konoha is made up of streets and forest rather than cliffs and beaches doesn't mean Kisame is any less skilled at slipping away unseen. 

Itachi will know he's in the village by now, but Kisame doesn't go looking for him. Instead he cuts across the outskirts of the village, heading north. Itachi has told him enough about it all for Kisame to know that by far the easiest way to untangle this clusterfuck is to just cut it right down the middle, so that's what Kisame does, making a beeline for the ROOT base. He's seen it often enough in Itachi's dreams after all, and really, ANBU sect or not, the guards they have on duty are hardly enough to stop a missing nin of Kisame's caliber. 

Huh, missing nin. Kisame hadn't really thought about it, but he supposes it's true. It should probably concern him more, the fact that he's abandoned his village and everyone in it, but honestly the most consternation Kisame feels with it is a vague regret that he's not going to be around to see what happens when Momochi's kid finally gets to the age where he starts wanting to date people.

Pieces of the guards are still dripping off Samehada when he makes it to Danzo's office, and Kisame doesn't bother to try and stop it, letting the blood drip freely from her scales. It's not as if the place isn't going to be a mess soon enough anyway. The old warhawk narrows his eyes when he spots Kisame, his eyes flicking to his hitaiate. 

"I should have known Yagura would betray me." Danzo says coldly, one hand sliding towards his sword. The flick of one finger brings another dozen masked guards forth from the shadows, landing around the room with their kunai at the ready. 

"Yagura, huh." Kisame says, making a mental note to say something about that to Momochi and Mei. It would figure that Yagura was in deep with some creepy old fucks in Konoha. Corrupt governments are sort of like that, they stick together. "Well that's interesting."

Danzo stills, eyes narrowing, caught wrong footed. His little shadow-guards bristle, shifting like dogs straining against the leash, not one daring to attack without first receiving their master's order. "If it's not Yagura who sent you, who was it?"

"Ah." Kisame says, swinging Samehada in a wide loop. He grins, teeth flashing in the dim light even as Samehada starts to bristle, scales rustling and maw opening as she prepares for a feast. "I don't suppose you need to know. You'll be dead soon anyway."

Danzo draws his sword and without another word his guards attack. Kisame grins, because really, it wouldn't be any fun if it wasn't a challenge now would it? 

-

The sun is dawning by the time ANBU finally catches up with him, and even then it's only because Kisame lets them. Kisame can spot the exact moment the Hokage arrives, because the guards all bristle, another wave of blank-masked ANBU spilling into the room to join the clusters already watching him from the shadowed corners of the ceiling, their sword glinting openly in the light. 

Sarutobi Hiruzen looks pretty much the same as the last time Kisame can remember seeing him, back during some peace conference between Konoha and Kiri - aged and weary and bowed beneath the weight of his duty, and yet still somehow dignified, his back proud and straight. Kisame wonders just how much of it is a façade. Most of it probably. He steps into the room, eyes casting a sharp look over Kisame and the ANBU, checking for any new altercations, before settling on Kisame once more, his arms coming to rest behind his back. 

"You're the one responsible for Danzo's death, I take it." The Hokage says as his guards fall in around him, masked ANBU forming up in silent lines along each wall, eye dark and empty behind their masks. Most have their hands openly waiting on their weapons. The Hokage's expression is grim, his gaze heavy, and yet Kisame bears it without flinching. "I suppose you're not going to try and deny it."

"Yeah, no." Kisame admits easily, leaning back leisurely against the Hokage's desk. Samehada is dripping blood on the paperwork from where she's braced over his shoulder. The two guards who's arms he broke gaining access to the office stand with the other ANBU, their glare palpable even behind their masks. "I definitely killed him."

"May I inquire as to what has prompted Kiri to begin such open hostilities?" The Hokage asks, voice cool and stone cold. One word from him and the ANBU would swarm Kisame, and even good as Kisame is, he's not good enough to fight the entirety of Konoha's active ANBU and jonin all in one go. Still, he'd be able to take out a fair number of them with him, and that's what's staying the Hokage's hand for the moment. 

"Ah." Kisame says, swinging Samehada over his shoulder and planting her on the floor beside him. Her scales shiver, her maw opening with an audible grumble, and the ANBU shift, eyeing her with barely restrained violence. "It's pretty simple. The Hozon Protocol, you're going to discontinue it. Right now. Forever. Or it'll be your head I leave in the street next."

The Hokage visibly tenses when Kisame brings up the protocol, and the ANBU almost jump out of their skins when Kisame makes the threat against the Hokage, the sounds of their hands tightening around their kunai almost audible - all save one, one of the shorter ANBU sporting a weasel mask, who's shoulders slump minutely. Kisame almost grins. 

"I wasn't aware Kiri had any interest in Konoha's... village politics." The Hokage says diplomatically, still scrambling to regain his footing. And no wonder, the Hozon Protocol is supposed to be one of Konoha's most classified operations, buried beneath one of the highest security clearances Konoha can muster. This, Kisame supposes, is why most villages are so concerned about people like he and Itachi. The sheer potential for information leaks is astounding. 

"They don't." Kisame replies bluntly. "But I do." He hops off the desk, swinging Samehada back onto his shoulder, watching as half the ANBU in the room flinch with the aborted reflex to stick a kunai through his eye. Kisame meets the Hokage's eyes squarely, any trace of joviality vanishing from his face until all that remains is a sharp smile that show far, far too many teeth. With Samehada in his hand, the threat is implicit. "It's time to decide, Sarutobi. Are you going to do what is easy? Or are you going to do what is _right_?"

If the Uchiha are really as close to the brink of rebellion as Itachi said, the enormity of what Kisame is demanding is almost nonsensical. If the Uchiha ever find out how close Konoha came to wiping them out, there'll be no coming back. And slapping them with a warning and imprisoning the ringleaders isn't an option, not unless they want the clan to turn against them in all out war. Konoha will never tolerate the Uchiha leaving and potentially propagating their bloodline elsewhere, which really leaves Sarutobi with very few options. Kisame doesn't care. He doesn't care if the Hokage has to get on his fucking knees and _beg_ the Uchiha for forgiveness, doesn't care what it costs him, what it costs Konoha, so long as Itachi comes out unscathed at the end of it. 

For Itachi's sake though, Kisame hopes that Sarutobi manages to find a peaceful resolution. 

The silence is tense, brittle, as the Hokage thinks on his answer, the seconds stretching on. Then, when the tension in the room feels like it can't get any sharper, there comes a soft sigh from the other side of the room. "Kisame." Itachi says wearily, his voice somewhat exasperated. "You can't just threaten the Hokage."

Every head in the room snaps around, turning to stare at Itachi. "Itachi..." The Hokage says, eyes narrowing as they flick back and forth. "You know this man?"

Itachi nods, stepping forward out of the line of ANBU and unclasping his mask. He ducks his head, bowing slightly. "Yes, Hokage-sama. This is Hoshigaki Kisame, my..." He hesitates, eyes darting to Kisame.

"Soulmate, I think is what people call it." Kisame says. His eyes catch on Itachi's and Kisame can't help but grin. Kisame had been ready, glad even, to take the fall for it all, to keep his ties to Itachi hidden and let him ride out the aftermath without being implicated, but here Itachi is, making the decision to step into the hot water with him, come what may. 

Whatever happens, they'll be in it together. 

Kisame can see the moment the Hokage makes up his mind, weariness settling heavy over his shoulders, the lines on his face seeming to deepen, and Kisame grins. From the moment Kisame got involved, there was never going to be any other result. The Hozon Protocol relies too heavily on secrecy. If the other clans ever found out how willing Konoha had been to wipe out one of their own, or worse, if the Uchiha ever found out how close they'd come to dying... Well, by the end of it, Kisame doubts there'd be very much of Konoha left standing. After all, Konoha's strength comes from its clans, the bloodlines that make up its forces. The moment the clans begin doubting the security of their position in the village, the whole things falls apart. 

And sure, Sarutobi could just kill Kisame and Itachi and go ahead with it anyway, hope that's enough to put a lid on the secret, but Kisame knows he won't risk it. After all, if Itachi was willing to tell a foreign Kiri nin about one of Konoha's most top secret operations, who else might he have told? Worse, who might Kisame have told?

The answer is no one of course, but Sarutobi can't know that, can't confirm it even if he suspects, and just the threat of the secret getting out is enough to make Konoha tremble down to its very bones. No, Sarutobi never had a choice. Not really. If the Uchiha clan goes, so does all of Konoha. 

Which, Kisame decides as the ANBU cuff him, dragging him down to T&I, Itachi only a step behind, isn't a bad position to be in, all things considered. And from the look Itachi gives him as they're hauled out of the office, he knows it too. 

"Guess you caught me after all." Kisame asks, even as someone adds another layer of chakra suppressing seals to his cuffs, noticing that the first pair had already begun to burn through. 

Itachi smiles, and its such soft thing, so bright and warm - the first genuine smile Kisame has seen from Itachi - that Kisame can't help but fall a little bit more in love. "Yeah." Itachi says. "I guess I did."

**Author's Note:**

> Sarutobi and Danzo: welp guess we have to kill the Uchiha for their own good  
> Kisame, kicking open the door: bitches you thought  
> Sarutobi, crying: why are you doing this  
> Itachi: i am very sad
> 
> In regards to how easily Kisame killed Danzo, the way I see it is that in canon most of Danzo's most powerful abilities come from his collection of creepy repossessed Uchiha eyes, where as Kisame is canonically a mofo who can go toe to toe with a fully manifested jinchuriki and come out on top. As a result, guards or not, I'm pretty sure Kisame would just punt Danzo into the stratosphere. (Which also raises the consideration that Gai, who is shown to have beaten the living shit out of Kisame at least twice, is actually like god-tier strong and could probably smush Danzo like a bug, but oh well. springtime of youth ya'll).
> 
> Also, Danzo doesn't deserve a long drawn out dramatic fight scene. Like seriously, fuck that guy.
> 
> Hope you guys liked it. Please leave a comment to let me know what you thought!


End file.
